


Space Turtle

by ih3artgerm, tsukidrama



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drug Use, F/F, Kissing, Recreational Drug Use, Stoner Pieck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28142628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ih3artgerm/pseuds/ih3artgerm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukidrama/pseuds/tsukidrama
Summary: Pieck invites you to smoke weed with her, and hooks you up in multiple ways.Rated M for drugs.
Relationships: Pieck (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Reader, Pieck (Shingeki no Kyokin) & Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 104





	Space Turtle

**Author's Note:**

> note: this was requested on tumblr and I handed it over to the most talented pothead I know - my wife!
> 
> tsuki: to minors who read this - don't do drugs! it isn't worth the risks and it does not make you cool. when you're 18 or older, do whatever you want but make sure you keep yourself safe. that being said, yes Space Turtle is a real strain, and yes it is a damn good one.

Pieck twists open her hot pink grinder and presents the contents to you with a wide smile. She sifts through the finely ground, fluffy marijuana. 

“Do you see the trichomes in there?” she asks, pointing out the orange flecks amongst the sea of green. “That’s how you know this is some good shit. Wanna smell?” 

You nod, and hold the bottom half of the grinder up to your nose. An unmistakable aroma fills your nostrils. 

“Smells fruity,” you observe. 

Pieck smiles at you, and hands you a lighter with a light blue plaid design on the plastic covering. You hand her back the grinder, and watch as she gently knocks the herb with her finger into the bowl of a small, glass pipe. 

“You can have the first hit,” she says, handing it to you. You gratefully accept. 

The pipe fits snugly into your hand. A curved base cups the bowl above it, with your thumb resting comfortably next to the small hole in the side. The stem of the pipe is striated, blue and red glass intertwining and twisting into an intricate pattern. Before you light the bowl, you lift the pipe to see the pattern at the bottom of the bowl; the red and blue glass twists together to form a textured spiral in the center. 

“Cute pipe,” you tell her, before you flick the lighter and hold it above the bowl. You plug the carb with your thumb and inhale, reveling in the crisp smell of the bud burning, the ends curling orange as the smoke rushes into your lungs. 

You plug the carb with your thumb, and hand the still-smoking pipe to Pieck. She inhales deeply as well, holding eye contact with you as she holds her breath. She smiles at you contentedly, and lets her eyes slide closed. 

Pressure in your lungs turns into a slight tickle, so you begin to exhale, but halfway through, you choke, and cough raspily. Pieck blows out her own hit smoothly. 

She hands you a water bottle, which you wrench the cap off of and chug as if it’s the essence of life. Your throat still burns, but your lungs have stopped contracting. . 

With a flick of the lighter, Pieck lights the bowl and takes another hit. She offers it to you with a small shrug and a small sigh. Smoke puffs from between her lips. You ignore your sore throat and hit it anyway. 

After several long seconds, Pieck exhales. “Do you like indicas or sativas better? Or do you not really have a preference?” 

You blow the smoke off to the side, with only a slight clear of your throat this time. “Uh, the kind that gets you high?” you say, stupidly. 

Pieck blinks, and looks off into the distance with a more thoughtful expression than your comment deserved. “Who’s your weed man?” she inquires. 

“Nobody, I guess,” you reply as you hold the pipe to your lips once again, “I usually smoke with other people. Sometimes I buy from friends who have extra.” As the flame hits the bowl, aromatic smoke curls up to tickle your nose. Pieck takes the pipe, chuckling.

“Ah, so you just bum off of other people? Is that what’s happening here, then?” she questions, looking pointedly at you. 

All of a sudden you feel self-conscious. You let the smoke out through your nose, and cough quietly. 

Pieck snorts, and places her hand on your knee. “I’m joking, don’t worry. You’re welcome to have as much as you’d like. And you need a dealer. I’ll hook you up with the guy I usually go to.” She re-lights the ashy bowl, and the soft light of the flames dance across her nose and cheeks. 

“Thanks, Pieck,” you say, eyes fixed on her dreamily. 

She hands you the weed again, and you quickly hit it before the embers go out. Pieck continues on. 

“Anyway. I was saying. There are two types of weed. Indicas and sativas. Sativas are more energizing. I personally think they’re good for daytime smoking.”

You pass the bowl to her again, and suppress another cough. 

She hit again before finishing her point. “This is the kind that’s good for pain.” 

After dumping the ash in a trash can, she knocks another bowlful of fresh weed into the pipe, and scoots to sit just an arm’s reach away from you. Her hand touches yours as she hands it back to you, and you swear her touch leaves you tingling. 

“This is a sativa?” you ask, peering at the crumbly green bud, trying to hide your nervousness when you notice that her knee is touching yours. 

Pieck holds the lighter up, and holds it lit for you above the bowl. You inhale, and the top layer darkens to ash. Instead of taking the pipe from you, Pieck leans her head close to hit it while it’s still in your hand. She closes her eyes as she savors it, and between the way her lips curl into a smile and the way she’s so close that you can see every pore in her face, it’s a surprisingly intimate gesture. 

Finally, Pieck exhales a small wisp of smoke. “This is a sativa-dominant hybrid.” 

“Damn,” you say, hands trembling. Your face is hot, and you’re uncomfortably aware of the sound of your own heartbeat. For a moment, you wonder if this hybrid shit is going to make you bug out, but your fears quickly dissipate. 

“Hybrids are pretty common. People like the best of both worlds, I guess,” Pieck rambles, and her words seem somewhat distant. She grabs a small ziplock bag from behind her, half-filled with little green nuggets of various shapes and sizes. Your heartbeat quickens loudly in your ears as Pieck tucks her hair behind her ear, glancing at you from underneath heavy lidded eyes. 

“But like, there are hundreds of strains out there. They’re all gonna get you high but sometimes different strains make you feel a little different.”

“Can I have another hit?” you blurt. 

“Of course, babe,” Pieck hands the lighter to you, and lifts the open baggie to her nose, and then offers it to you to smell. “This strain is called Space Turtle. Hold on.” 

You take another hit. 

Pieck picks up her phone and unlocks it. Her fingers tap away at the touchscreen, and the light of her phone screen changes from one color to another as the webpage loads, casting a multicolored glow across her face. 

“Yep, here it is,” she says. “60/40 sativa dominant hybrid. Both of its parent strains are hybrids, too. Nowadays you have all kinds of shit out there.” 

“Woah,” you say, watching the way the light from her phone drifts through the smoke. “That’s a whole ass family tree.” 

You notice the pipe is still lit, and hit it one more time before you pass it to Pieck again. 

She takes a hit as well, and while holding her breath, says, “Kudos to the growers for getting this combination though. Those people are artists and scientists, and have all my respect.”

You nod in agreement. “What about the other type?”

“Oh shit, my bad,” she sits up straight. “Indicas make you feel more relaxed. All weed does, but this kind especially. It makes for some pretty bomb ass naps. Or insomnia.”

“Sounds nice,” you mumble. At this point, your eyelids start to feel heavy. Your head feels weighted, and you prop your chin on your hand. 

Pieck’s hand is touching your arm. You aren’t sure when it got there or how it came to happen, but the wheels in your head begin to turn, and you are suddenly aware of your own heartbeat once again. 

“You have trouble sleeping?” she asks. 

You nod, and try to swallow your nerves. “Sometimes.” 

Pieck looks away, but keeps her hand on your arm. 

“Me too,” she says after a few moments. 

She catches your eye. You can’t have been looking at each other for more than a few seconds, but in those few seconds, time passes at a fraction of its normal speed. Pieck’s dark eyes have something deeper behind them, something that has peaked your interest since the first time you met her. 

Yet now, with your faces just inches apart, you can’t help but feel like you’re out of place. Your heart pounds in your throat at the sight of her long lashes delicately curling off to the side, and of the stray hairs that wisp in front of her face carelessly. 

For a moment, you picture her closing the distance between you, and the idea makes your heartbeat quicken. Right as you feel like she may actually be coming closer, she twists around to sift through the cloth bag full of sandwich baggies. She reads the scribbled sharpie on a couple bags until she selects what she was looking for. 

“Here. You can take this if you want,” she says, holding the half-filled baggie out to you. “It’s a quarter of an ounce. Should last you a little while.” 

The smile on her face warms your heart, but you can’t help feel like it’s too much. 

“Are you sure?” you ask nervously, “This is a lot.”

Pieck nods, stretching her lips into a flat smile. She holds the lighter above the bowl. “Yeah, take it! I was going to give it to Galliard, but I already gave him a ½ last week, plus an edible.” She takes a hit. 

“He won’t be mad?” You know that he will be, but you also know that Pieck also isn’t the type to rat you out to him. And after all, she was offering -- and who wouldn’t turn down free weed? 

She shrugs. “Eh, he’ll get over it. It’s always a pain in the ass to get him to pay me back anyway.” 

You snort. “Well, don’t tell him it’s me you gave it to.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Pieck assures you, “I’ll just say I smoked it. It’s mine, after all.” Pieck rests her hand on the top of your leg. 

Immediately, everything around you blurs out of focus, your vision tunneling as you stare at her hand against your skin. You feel like a deer in headlights, and can only pray that the expression on your face doesn’t reflect that. 

If Pieck notices your odd behavior, she doesn’t comment on it. 

“Do you mind if I play some music?” she says after a few moments of silence. 

You shake your head, ears burning. Her phone unlocks, and once her music app loads, she selects a playlist and hits shuffle. 

The bluetooth speaker on her dresser hums to life, the bass vibrating through the wood. The beat of the song is slow, with soothing synths harmonizing along with dreamy vocals. 

Pieck’s hand never leaves your leg. As she relaxes, her hand slips further up your thigh, and by the time it’s traveled several inches, you can’t help but inhale shakily at the sensation. Her hand freezes, and she pulls it back against her body. 

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly, averting her eyes. 

Panic flashes in your brain, and your inebriated brain cannot hold back the instinct you have to reach for her wrist. Your fingers tighten and you place her hand back exactly where it had wandered. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper breathlessly. 

Pieck’s eyes — low and red, flit back to meet yours. Her lips part slightly as if she is going to say something, but when her eyes break away from yours once again to stare at the floor, your heart drops. 

“Pieck,” you begin, and your grip on her wrist slackens, “I didn’t—“ 

Before you can finish what you were going to say, and before your brain has time to process how you got there, you’re leaning forward with your lips pressed against Pieck’s. At first, your initial shock makes you freeze, and you sit still as she kisses you. Her lips are soft and warm, as is the hand that rises to touch your cheek. 

As soon as her hand touches you, something inside you stutters to life. You kiss her back. Her other hand finds yours, pulling it from your side to press it against the side of her waist. For some reason, your fingers won’t stop shaking. Pieck pulls away from you, a concerned expression on her face. 

“Is this okay?” she falters, “You seem--” 

“Yes,” you interrupt. “Yes, it’s okay.” 

“I think maybe I’m just high?” she offers, and tries to scoot back. Your hand tightens on her waist. 

“I’m okay! Please...” you whisper. Pieck relaxes, and the lump in your throat dissipates. 

You swallow hard before you gather the strength to speak again. Your voice trembles.

“Please kiss me again.” 

As much as the first kiss had shocked you, it somehow feels even more surreal to kiss her for the second time. Again she places her hand on your cheek, and it feels as if she’s drawing you further into her. Her nose presses against yours and accidentally bumps it hard when she shifts to kiss you at a different angle. 

Her tongue slips against your bottom lip. Your lips part and a shiver runs down your spine. Another slight shift in position, and once again, you find yourself swept up in a series of events that unfolds so quickly that you can barely process them until after they’ve happened. 

Pieck’s hand is threaded in your hair, sitting on her knees and nearly straddling your hips with her tongue shoved halfway down your throat. Your arms are around her waist, hands splayed against her shoulder blades. Her eyelashes are so long that they flutter against your skin delicately. It’s hard to ignore her hips pressing into your body insistently, and in response, you hold her against you as tightly as you can manage. Pieck’s tongue runs along the backsides of your teeth before she kisses you full on the lips once more. 

Her cheeks glow crimson, eyes hooded yet wild in intoxication of multiple kinds. She touches her forehead to yours. Both of you breathe hard, still clinging to one another. 

“What was that for?” you ask her. Her grip on your hair slackens. As she pulls her hand down, she strokes your cheek gently. 

“I’m not entirely sure,” Pieck responds, “but I liked it.” 

You brush a wispy strand of hair out of her face. 

“I liked it, too.” 

Pieck sinks down to sit on her heels. A wicked smile crosses her face, and at that moment, you would do anything she asks of you without a second thought. 

“Stay the night, then.” 

You smile. 

“I can’t wait.”


End file.
